


Burn

by AngelsGuts



Category: Who Killed Markiplier? (Web Series), markiplier - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-26 18:23:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19773841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelsGuts/pseuds/AngelsGuts
Summary: Some William directly after the events of WKM ovo





	Burn

Beautiful. Beloved. 

Whoever she was, she left warmth stirring within William’s - no, Wilford’s chest. He only remembered her in glimpses; her beautiful raven hair that cupped her cheeks and draped elegantly over her shoulders. So full and soft, heaven to run your fingers through.

Scarlet stained her lips, drawing the attention of anyone who laid eyes upon them. He remembered how soft they were against his own; secrets smeared across his lips and trailing down his neck to his chest. Lipstick stains held hickeys within them, mixing red, black, and blue. Electricity still sparked through his body when he thought of her. Everything about her was exciting, enticing. He didn’t remember her name, but he remembered  _ her.  _ He remembered how he loved her.

And him, who was he? Just as beautiful as the woman, but perhaps a bit warmer. His eyes were gentle, the smile on his face inviting. He believed he may have remembered those lips against his own as well, but perhaps that was a fever dream. Something inside of him lurched with a sickened excitement upon seeing him, wanting nothing more than to be with him and yet feeling so  _ wrong  _ about it. Bile rose in his throat. He set the image to the side.

He took a deep breath, eyes closing as he recollected himself. When they opened again, they scanned the room of the hotel he stayed in. The walls were a bare white, a beautiful brick fireplace being the only thing that broke the monotony. It sat at the foot of the single bed covered in a white comforter that had been disheveled from Wilford’s panicked kneading. He was far from anywhere he recognized, though that seemed to be the case quite often lately. He had very few possessions, most of which he no longer cared for. They left a sour taste in his mouth, slipping down in his throat and settling into his stomach to make him retch. He rarely ate anymore. He’d never cared for seconds.

Memories were hazy. He couldn’t piece anything together - what did each of these pins on this coat mean? Was this his, or did he take it? Where did he come from? Who were the people in the pictures? Did he have any family? Friends? Anyone? 

Sometimes, a flash of familiarity would wash over him, and the excitement he felt was soon followed by a frantic run to the bathroom to dry heave.

Tears slipped down his cheeks as his hand curled into a fist. Warm embers illuminated the man’s face, tears glistening in the light as he stared into the fire. He looked at the pictures in his hands once more, allowing himself to cry over them. His tears gently caressed their faces, though it wasn’t long before they distorted them, ruining them beyond recognition. The ink smeared and swirled, turning the once beautiful siblings into deranged monstrosities.

“ _ I’m sorry, _ ” Wilford choked out, hands shaking with a guilt he couldn’t quite place. 

Where were they? Where did they go? Did they hate him? Why did they leave him?

_ Damien. _

_ Celine. _

_ I’m sorry. _

He stood suddenly, using the bedpost for leverage. The images were crushed in his fist. To look at them any longer would only drive him mad, if he weren’t already. 

With little hesitation, he tossed the crumpled pictures into the flames, allowing them to be quickly consumed by the aggressive heat around them. They succumbed to the flames, helpless within them. They lost themselves within them - everything that made them unique and beautiful quickly becoming morphed and reconstructed by their happenstance.

Wilford only watched, body and mind disconnected as the world slowly faded around him. It was only him and the fire in front of him, but perhaps that was okay. The tears down his cheeks didn’t have to be his, they didn’t have to be for them. 

He dry heaved again, choking on his guilt.

There was nothing left for him to give.

There was nothing left for him to do.

The fire was all that was real. The heat he felt from it, how it burned his eyes, dried his tears. It wrapped around him, a gentle heat that stung only a little. Whatever was inside didn’t exist anymore. Whatever had caused him to fall into such a tizzy was no longer there. Was it even there to begin with? What had caused this little episode, anyway?

Wilford sat in front of the fire, sniffling softly as he stared deep between the charred pieces. He became mesmerized with it, eyes dancing with the flickering flames. It held him close, tousled his hair, wiped his tears. Mindless music hummed between his lips, lulling him into a trance.

Perhaps he should go dancing.


End file.
